Page 32 of Blood of the Thistle

He regarded her for another long moment without speaking, and Anna found herself standing unusually still beneath the weight of his gaze. They had ridden pressed together for nearly an hour, yet somehow this felt infinitely more intimate. Perhaps because there was nothing between them now but a few inches of air, or because he was shirtless and the sight of his powerful chest, matted with dark whorls of hair, was as distracting as his naked back had been. She forced her gaze upward, tilting her head to meet his eyes. This close, she noticed the impossibly dark lashes surrounding eyes nearly as black. A tiny scar cut through one eyebrow, and a faint line was permanently etched between his brows, as though he’d spent most of his life angry, unhappy, or wearing his war face.

She cleared her throat. “Well, anyway, I have these things. They won’t be enough, but they should help clean it and keep it from getting infected. And these,” she said, wriggling the Band-Aids again, “might hold the skin together. It’s better than leaving it open.”

He seemed to examine her closely for another long moment before he nodded.

Anna tore open an alcohol wipe and stepped nearer. She held the tiny square up for his inspection before reaching for him. Her fingers settled lightly above his elbow, but as she brought the cloth toward the wound, she saw that her hand was trembling. Damn it. She drew a breath and tried again, but the trembling only worsened, which in turn made her lip quiver. Before she could pull her hand away, Bram caught it gently in his.

“Anastasia.”

She stared at their joined hands, holding herself very still, not even blinking.

“They would have done us harm.”

Her throat tightened. She nodded jerkily. Her lip trembled embarrassingly, and she pressed it firmly between her teeth.

His thumb moved once across the back of her hand, though she didn’t know if it was deliberate.

“Ye dinna need to do this—”

“Yes, I do. I can do it.” She drew an unsteady breath. “I need to do something.”

Bram watched her for another moment before slowly releasing her hand.

Anna concentrated upon the little square of cloth between her fingers rather than the blood upon his skin, and when her hand steadied sufficiently, she touched it to the deepest part of the wound.

Bram jerked away. “God’s wounds, lass!”

Anna startled and nearly dropped the cloth. “Sorry! I should have warned you. It stings, but it will clean the wound.”

“ʼTis as though ye poured fire upon it.”

Ordinarily she might have laughed at the affront in his voice. Today she only winced. “I’m sorry. I really should have warned you.”

His lips compressed, but after a moment he inclined his head for her to continue.

She traced the pale, uneven lines of older scars near the new wound. She wondered if this fresh gash would someday heal into just another bloodless mark on his skin, a footnote in a life defined by violence. The thought left a hollow ache in her chest—a sadness for the man who seemed to have never known a world without it.

When the cut was as clean as she could make it, she opened the antibiotic ointment and squeezed some onto one finger. Bram eyed the substance with immediate distrust.

“What manner of medicine is that?”

Anna glanced at the little tube. “Antibiotic ointment. It helps prevent infection.”

“What is in it?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

One dark brow rose.

“I know what it does,” she defended, “not how to make it.”

Bram’s expression remained skeptical, but he gave a curt nod, permitting her to spread the ointment carefully over the cut. Afterward, Anna wiped her finger against the inside of her jacket sleeve and opened the Band-Aids. There were only six, and after considering the length of the wound, she decided to use three across its deepest portion and save the remainder.

“All right,” she said then, opening up all three bandages. “These should hold the skin together, like stitches. But you must keep them on and try not to get them wet, or the adhesive will fail.” Carefully, she placed the first strip across the widest section of the wound. She added a second right beside it, and then a third, overlapping them slightly until the deepest portion was covered. “I’m sorry this is all I have,” she said, gesturing with the tiny bandages. “It’s not enough for... for this.”

Her cheeks warmed. He was staring at her, not at his wound. She could feel the quiet intensity of his regard and didn’t dare meet his gaze. She pressed gently along each adhesive strip, smoothing the edges with her fingertips, fussing more than was necessary before she stepped back to inspect the result.

She saw three tiny, flimsy strips of plastic against a wound made by a sword. It looked impossibly small and inadequate, and she prayed it would be enough.